


A Second Chance

by lilysooly



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor gets a little tipsy, Alastor is confused, Angst, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dark, F/M, Flashbacks, Growing Up, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader is confused, Reader-Insert, Sorta out of character, Triggers, Violence, duh it's Al, everyone is confused, oh well, soulmates?, this is pretty much a flashback fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilysooly/pseuds/lilysooly
Summary: Alastor spent all this time searching for reader. She was his soulmate in life. He finally found her! But their first interaction didn't go as planned.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Comments: 21
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

You step into the bathroom at Basher’s Bar. It was a good night working security. You threw out a couple drunkards and didn’t even get shanked by a rusty fork! On top of that, the bartender and your reluctant buddy, Husker, offered to make you a drink after your shift. Free booze you could trust? That’s rare. You lean over the sink and rinse off your face. The icy water feels great compared to the hellish summer. You stare into the cracked mirror. The tanktop you’re wearing really shows off your form. You grin at yourself. Man, you are _built_. Not to bodybuilder levels, but you look strong. Powerful. You chased after confidence for years and years and finally found it in a bathroom reeking of vomit and cheap perfume.

It's a good night. 

You wipe your face off with your arm and step out. There’s a red clad red haired man sitting at the bar, nursing what appears to be less viscous tar. “Husky I thought we were clo-” He motions for you to shut the hell up and go back to the washroom. Too late. The man turns his head 180 degrees to face you. 

“My dearest little darling!” He stands and approaches you. “Just the sinner I was hoping to see.” His voice crackles like a shitty radio. Radio. Demon. _Radio Demon._ This is the Radio Demon. He nearly wiped you off of the face of Hell a few months back in a “broadcast”. Husk looks at you then him with mild annoyance, like he knows this smiley freak. There’s something under that, another layer: fear. 

The Radio Demon guides you to the stool next to his with a hand against the small of your back. He motions for you to sit. You warily oblige.   
“Husker, my dearest Husk, what happened to that charm of yours? We used to have so much fun, you and I,” his grin is audible in his tone. He sips from his glass. As the liquid passes his lips, the constant static emitting from him spikes. A shiver goes down his spine. 

“Don’t start talking to me like I’m your fucking kitty cat or some shit,” Husk wipes a glass before pouring a healthy helping of whiskey into it. Neat. He slides it to you. He grabs the bottle he had been nursing all night from under the counter and stumbles to the other side of the bar. With Husk dismantled, the Radio Demon turns his attention to you.   
Shit. You bring your cup to your lips and take a heavy gulp. You sigh with the burn. You can deal with him. Just humor this guy for a couple minutes and dip. 

“What brings a gal like yourself out at this hour?”

“I should be asking you the same.” 

“Nothing eases the mind like one of Husker’s brews!” You hum softly in acknowledgement. You saw somewhere that this guy is _really_ into corny jokes. It's worth a shot to get him off your back. You drink. 

“Hey, what do sprinters eat before a race?” 

His ears perk up as he taps a claw to his chin in feigned contemplation. “Enlighten me.”

“Nothing, they fast.” You have never, in all your life (or unlife) heard someone laugh so hard at a shitty dad joke. It drowns out your own phony “haha”s. Even the radio filter left his voice. He tips the remaining liquid into his mouth. 

“I thought about going on an all-almond diet,” he looks at you expectantly, building up to the release. “But that’s just nuts!” His roaring laughter fills the empty room again. He calms down quicker this time. 

“Maybe you should try bitter almonds. I heard they do wonders for your health,” you snicker softly as you swirl your drink. 

He stares at you with amusement and fresh curiosity. Ah shit. You’re not going to stick around long enough to find out what that look means. You down the rest of your drink and tap the empty glass against the counter.

“Husky, I’m gonna head out for the night. Thanks.”

“Whatever.”   
  
You wave a “goodbye” to the Radio Demon. “Husker, what kind of man are you? Not offering to walk the dame home.”  
  
“She can handle herse-”  
  
He poofs next to you in a flourish of shadowy magic. “Allow me.” He leans over you, caging you in front of the exit. He’s tall, encompassing the entirety of the doorway with his person. You smell the alcohol on his breath. You take a step back, opening the door in the process, and slip out. He follows in tow. You don’t even try to argue.  
  
You traverse the streets and alleyways with your unwanted companion. He hums softly but doesn’t speak. No sinners bug you. He’s an intimidating presence after all.   
The closest street light flickers uncontrollably. Almost there. You take a right down an alleyway. You make your way up the side of a five-ish story building and stop at the top of the stairwell. He’s still with you. 

“Well thanks for walking me home.” Even though you didn’t ask. “Good night- uh.” 

“Alastor.” 

“Yeah good night Al.” You take out your keys and slip the proper one into its place. You open the door and slip right in. You want to get away from him as soon as possible. As you’re about to close the door. His shadow slips through. It jumps to life and manifests into his organic form.

Are you fucking serious. 

His shoes tap the hardwood floors as he turns to face you. His ever present grin is bright and youthful. He grabs your hand and gives you a twirl.

“Would you care to dance?”

“Excuse me!?” This bastard has to be drunk. 

With a snap, clap, and tap, your small sparsely furnished apartment is morphed into what appears to be the interior of a cabin. Books line the walls, a wood stove rests in a corner, taxidermy shoulder mounts of all sizes cover what space the books didn’t take, and the crowning jewel, a radio, sits quietly against the wall closest to you. 

“How could I forget! We can’t rattle without a tune!” 

“What?”

He snaps again and the radio buzzes to life. It plays an upbeat jazzy tune from what feels like a century ago. He presses you against his chest. You can feel the faint beat of his rotting heart. Bitter alcohol clings to his jacket. 

What. Is. Happening. He just let himself into your home and decided he wants to boogie-woogie??

“Just follow my lead sweetheart.” He moves slowly at first to give you a feel for the steps and rhythm. He hums to the melody as he walks you both in smooth circles across the room. With a few breaths your stiff muscles relax. This is fine. It’s weird but fine. As the song picks up so does the footwork. You’re surprised you're able to keep up with him. The tune slows into something sweeter. His footsteps follow and shift to a steady rocking. As the track ends, he gives you one final twirl and dip. He holds you there for a moment before hoisting you up. 

“I haven’t had a partner like you since…” For the briefest of moments he looks mournful. He shakes it off before you could even register it was there. Something clicks behind his eyes. “Do you have a birthmark on your right shoulder?” 

Without thinking, you reach your arm around and cover your shoulder. “How… how did you know?”

Finally, after searching for so very long he found you. You, no she, no your soul claimed his heart all those years ago and never gave it up. 

He didn’t want it to.

A scene plays in his head like a moving picture. It was a foggy day. The swamp was just blooming to life with spring fever. Alastor came home to the cabin later than usual. He didn’t even realize it: he recreated the space in your own. Nostalgia mixed with drink is a cruel brew.   
He didn’t have time to wash off from his last “hunting excursion”, but it wouldn’t matter. You, no the sweetest darling dame that held your soul, would already have a bath drawn for him. He swung the door open with a flourish, expecting to see her lounging in his high backed chair next to the radio. She always said it was more familiar than her own because it smelt of him.   
  
Instead of lounging, she was already in his arms sobbing. “Alastor…” She sounded so tired. “Al it's ok we can figure it out.” She cupped his cheek in her gentle grasp. “I know.”   
  
She knew.   
  
His knife felt so heavy in his pocket.   
  
She finally lifted her head from his chest. He wiped a tear away and kissed her eyelids. The blood she saw spattered across his face and fine shirt confirmed what she so dreaded. “They’re onto you. But you’ll be ok. We’ll be ok!” she laughed softly. She was rambling. The poor doll always did when she was nervous. He picked up the habit from her. “I’m sure you’re already aware. If I could figure it out, they aren’t far behind.”

He reached into his pocket.

“Don’t worry I already started packing. I even made us a few meals to travel on and-” She sounded so fragile and scared. He couldn’t take it any longer. 

He hushed her with a kiss. He lingered for a moment, testing the weight of the blade in his hand. “You can’t come with me dear.” He couldn’t escape with her knowing the truth. He couldn’t let her leave knowing it either. “It’s my fault. I got sloppy. You should have never known. I couldn’t, I _can’t_ stop. I love the chase. I love their fear, their- I love you,” he sighs darkly. A shadow comes over his face. “It makes this all the harder because I love you.” 

She fell for him. She fell for all his quirks and oddities. She grew to love his every inch and breath. And he did the same. He had to protect her from his fate. 

He held the blade against her back. The tip hovered just above her unblemished skin. He would protect her from following his fate. “You pray and pray to go to heaven every night. I hear you. I can’t mess that up for you, my love. I can’t! I can’t have you following my path to hell. But I know you won’t leave me here.”

With that, he plunged the knife into her flesh. He felt the blood. He felt her scream. 

“Shh my darling, my dear, my sweetheart, my doll, my love,” he cooed. “I love you Dolly,” he pressed his lips against her quivering forehead. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he repeated over and over again until she went cold.

You watch in horror and awe as Alastor’s smile slips from his face. He _never_ not smiles. He isn’t acting. He would _never_ let himself appear so vulnerable in front of another, in front of himself. You reach you to cup his cheek. You aren’t sure what possessed you to do it.

Your touch breaks him. He staggers back, bumping into the radio. He looks around, dazed. He turns his attention back to you. It’s you. It’s your soul. You’re back. His love is back. 

“Al?” You need to knock some sense into him. Your hand finds his cheek, slapping him across the face. Hard. You grab his arm and tug him into the high backed chair he magiced into your home. “What the hell has gotten into you?” 

His smile creeps back on his face, “A little birdie- no a little snake, that’s more fitting, told me that my soulmate reincarnated, died, and ended up in hell. I’ve been searching and searching all this time and-” he grabs you and holds you against him. He rests his head on your own. 

“I found her. I found you.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: animal harm/death (Please don't take the TW lightly. This isn't pretty.)

“I found her. I found you.” 

“Found me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You wriggle free from his grasp. “I don’t want anything to do with this soulmate bullshit.”

“But… but-” How can someone look  _ so _ sad while smiling?

“Don’t start with the crocodile tears,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “How about this, let’s say in a week we meet after my shift. Two in the morning, both sober, got it? It’ll give us, mostly me, time to think whatever this is over.” You hope that he’s too drunk to remember this exchange. 

“Oh joy! I cannot wait to see you again.” He reaches for your hand, hoping to kiss it. Instead, you grab his wrist and yank him out of the magically poofed chair. 

“Yep, now out!” You drag him to the door and shove him out. “Goodnight darling,” you drawl mockingly. 

_ Slam _

Shit. You forgot to ask him to change everything back.

* * *

He stumbles down the street in a haze. Luckily for him, his microphone whisks him home with a simple snap and tap. But this doesn’t stop him from pacing his study in the same mindset. 

_ He found her. He found you.  _

It has been oh so long since he thought of his human past. 

Alastor first met  _ her _ , Dahlia Fier, many many years ago, only a few after the turn of the century. If he recalls correctly, they were both five. She was visiting her grandfather, an old cotton king, for his birthday. The Boucher family was invited for the festivities, and with them came little Alastor. 

It’s been even longer since he thought of his family. 

His mother was the daughter of a Haitian nobleman. A powerful woman, she was well versed in vodou and taught her son all she knew. His father was an American-French diplomat born to a wealthy family. Alastor’s mixed heritage was prominently reflected in his appearance. He had his father’s sharp features and lanky build (although not yet seen in his boyhood), his mother’s rich brown eyes, and his flesh a tawny beige.

Being the only two children at the party, they played and played. They chased after frogs, raced sticks in the creek, trundled a hoop: all sorts of fun. When they had to go their separate ways, they wept. 

The pair was inseparable growing up. During their breaks away from school, they would spend time in the country together, just outside of New Orleans. Their games remained the same unless someone got a grand new toy. One year it was a rocking horse, the next a yo-yo, the next a pocket knife. 

Alastor’s grandfather got it for him to the dismay of his father when he was about eight. He was so excited to show Dahlia.

The mosquitos’ buzzes and cicadas’ hums filled their ears as the sun slowly set. The humid air clung to their throats, and their squeals filled the woods. Mrs. Fier just called them in for dinner, and, as the seeker in their came of hide-and-seek, Dahlia still had to find Alastor. 

Squatting in a small clearing in the brush, he waited. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, and it wasn’t his friend. He turned to face a matted black cat. It hissed and puffed itself up, startling him into falling into the leaves. He was scared. Throwing at it, he attempted to spook it away, but it only hissed louder. He felt the weight of his new knife in his pocket as he shifted to grab another stick. He almost forgot about it. Maybe he could show it to Dahlia in his own special way. 

A smile crept it's way on his face. He wasn’t scared anymore. The cat was scared. In one fluid motion, he struck the beast down and held its head against the leaves. It writhed and yowled, trying to nip his hand. If he didn’t act fast, it would give away his hiding spot before he got to show her his surprise. He thought back to what the servants did when dealing with livestock: either the head or neck. Since he was holding it down by the head, he struck its neck. One, two, three, four, it stopped fighting. He wiped his reddened hands off with a few leaves. 

“Dolly! Dolly, come here!” Al couldn't say her name right when they first met. It didn’t roll off the tongue for a child of five so she was deemed Dolly. Even now it wasn’t clear. He lost his front baby teeth only yesterday. Al stood from the brush, twigs and leaves caught in his hair.

“I get it, you won! C’mon, Mama called us in for supper.” She searched for the deer trail that would lead them home. 

“Come here!” he insisted. Waving his arms and jumping, he beckoned her over. Dolly waded through the brambles, and prickers stuck to her dress. When she reached Alastor’s hiding spot, a small clearing, she picked off what she could. There was just enough room for the pair.

“What’s so important?”

He stepped to the side and pointed to a mangy black lump with the bloodied blade of his pocket knife. He kicked it with the toe of his boot. Its head rolled back to reveal long whiskers adorning a pink nose. A cat. 

“Look Dolly,” his voice lost its boyish glee. 

“You didn’t do that.” She took a step back and fell into the brush. He stood over her.

“You’re not going to tell, right?” He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t playing. Power was a dangerous thing for a child to taste. 

Mrs. Fier called for them again.

“You are not going to tell, right Dolly? Promise?” 

“Promise… I’m no tattletale.” Her voice was shaky, without confidence. Al slipped his knife back into his pocket and reached out an arm to help her up. He ran off towards the deer trail. He couldn’t show her anymore. Fear made people break promises. If his father found out, he would surely take away his knife. He couldn’t allow that to happen. 

“Last one back is a rotten egg!” he called out like nothing happened.

“Hey no fair!” she scrambled after him. 

“Hay is for horses, silly.”

* * *

The Boucher summer estate was seemingly in the middle of nowhere, but the commute to the city was more than easy. The faux hunters cabin sat on a lake. The lake slimmed to the north and fell down a modest waterfall to form a swamp. The water was warmer there so that’s where the frogs would lay their eggs. There wasn’t a better place to find colossal tadpoles. That’s where the pair, Al and Dolly, spent most of their summers. But on especially hot and sticky days, they would wade into the lake, far from the swaying willows. 

When Dolly wasn’t around, Al had another friend to play with: his pocket knife. Just like with her, they would play with the animals: frogs, squirrels, cats, one time even a dog. They had the most fun with the dog even if it was a pain to keep quiet. Dolly would always tell him to let them go, but not his knife. Never his knife. If it could make better conversation, it would replace her as his favorite. It could only dream of such a thing. The only thing it would tell, no remind him to do was to wash off when he was finished with his fun.

Today was one of those lake days. Either Al and Dolly could stay in the oven of a house or splash around. After lots of convincing and promising to share her crayons, Dolly convinced Al to go for a swim. She swung back and forth on a rope tied to a willow and dropped into the water with a satisfying splash. Al followed close behind. They splished and splashed and floated long after their digits were pruned. The sun began to set and the air cooled. Mosquitoes were going to be out soon. It was time to head in. 

“I’ll race you back. If you win, you can have my crayons!” She already began kicking forward, splashing him in the process. She knew, no matter what she offered, she had this in the bag. For a boy who practically grew up in the water, Al was an awful swimmer. He struggled behind her, doggie paddling every which way. 

When she was about halfway to the shore, she stopped to catch her breath but mostly to gloat. Her toes were more than a foot off of the lake bed. She turned around.

Where was Al? Her eyes frantically scanned the surface of the water. About ten feet back he popped out waving and gasping before disappearing again. She screamed out for him, catching Mrs. Boucher’s attention from the shore. 

She swam as fast as her short arms would allow and soon reached where he vanished. A hand grabbed her ankle. She dove under and retrieved the rest of him. 

“Dolly-” he coughed and gasped for air. He had no color to his face. “Why did you-”

“Because you’re my best friend so don’t you ever do that to me again!” she slapped him across the cheek. “Get on my back.” He clambered on top of her and wrapped his arms around her neck. 

“Took you long enough.” She slowly and steadily paddled until her feet reached the muddy ground. Now she could drag him behind her. When they reached the shore, Al’s mother gathered him in her arms and silently prayed to the loa. 

Later on, stomachs full, the children quickly recovered. They lounged in front of a bonfire one of the servants prepared. By the firelight, Al doodled with his newly acquired crayons.

“Whatcha drawing?”

“Papa Legba!”

“Who’s that?”

“He helps us talk to the loa if you give him sweets and rum. That’s what maman said.” He whispers something incoherent before crumpling the paper and tossing it into the fire. “It’s rude to ask him over and not have anything for him. He and the other loa wouldn’t be happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting the initial reaction so thank you for reading and the support! I hope you enjoyed this messed up chapter... it doesn't get better so be prepared!

**Author's Note:**

> First post! Wahoo! I've been a long time lurker and finally mustered the guts to post something. I did this baby in one sitting and didn't edit thoroughly, so if you see a mistake please let me know. Enjoy my mess!
> 
> Also please tell me if you want a continuation and throw ideas at me!!


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